First Impressions
by KifKathleen
Summary: We all know that Catherine felt safe with Vincent from the moment she awoke. But what if trauma and circumstances combined to create a different first impression?


Disclaimer: Sadly, I have no claim on Beauty and the Beast and make no profit from it. Rated T for some mistaken assumptions on Catherine's part.

* * *

Catherine surfaced gasping from a vivid nightmare of being slashed by razors. It took half a minute to realize that it was more memory than dream. Her eyes flew open, but were met with only darkness. With a supreme effort of will, she regulated her panicky breaths and took a mental assessment of her injuries. Her ribs ached fiercely – she remembered savage booted kicks – but after a few deep breaths, she concluded that nothing was broken. Her face seemed to have gotten the worst of the attack; every inch hurt, and a flashback to the blade descending toward her skin made her suddenly nauseous. Fighting back the image, she flexed her jaw, testing its range of motion. That was when she realized that her blindness was due, not to lack of light, but to bandages wrapped all around her head.

She reached her hands toward her face, but something restrained her wrists. She tugged experimentally at her bindings. There was a slight give to them – not handcuffs, but soft rope or perhaps cloth. The adrenaline already surging through her from the nightmare was augmented by the claustrophobia of being tied down. Straining one hand as far as it would go and craning her neck toward it, she managed to tug enough of the bandage free to uncover her eyes. The sight that confronted her was not at all reassuring.

She was in some sort of windowless room – a basement, apparently, although the walls seemed to be of rough-hewn stone rather than cinderblock. The room was lighted by dozens of candles. The bed and chairs were piled high with sumptuous fabrics; shelves and cabinets held an eclectic mix of antiques. She could see now that her wrists were bound to the bedposts with lengths of cloth – silk on her right, velvet on her left. _My word_, she thought in horror, _I am trapped in some pervert's medieval dungeon fantasy_. She pulled frantically at her bindings, but they were secure – she could not move more than a couple inches. And then a tall figure entered the room, and she froze, narrowing her eyes to slits and feigning unconsciousness.

* * *

Vincent was tired and hot and grimy. It had taken several hours to clean up the rockslide in one of the lower tunnels and to ensure that the area was not in further danger. His clothes were covered in dust and streaked with dirt, and he was sure that his face and hair were likewise. But he had been away from his patient for too long; he needed to check on her before he could allow himself the comfort of a bath and fresh clothes. He reached for her outstretched hand, fingers searching for her pulse while his eyes followed the second hand on the clock. But before he could take a count, he was startled to feel her jerk out of his grasp, to hear a low cold voice say, "Don't touch me."

His head snapped towards her, and his eyes met hers. His first instinct was to hide his face, but he wore no hood, and at any rate, she had already seen him. He expected to see a look of horror, and certainly there was plenty of fear in her eyes, but what surprised him was the anger, hatred even, that he found there. He had always known intellectually that he would not be well-received by those from Above, but this was the first time he had actually experienced such animosity, and it staggered him. He took a deep breath, forced a smile, and said in what he hoped was a soothing voice, "It is good to see that you have awakened at last."

* * *

Catherine studied the figure that loomed above her. His costume looked to be a homespun parody of something that would appear in an old oil portrait hanging in the Met. His hands were covered in furred gloves, clawed at the tips. And his face was hidden behind the mask of a lion – latex, Catherine guessed, and probably expensive and custom-made, judging by the way it seemed to move with him. For a moment she wondered if she had been sold to a wealthy fetishist, but dismissed the idea. Her kidnappers would not have savaged her as they did if they viewed her as merchandise. So the man acting out this bizarre fantasy, this mockery of a fairy-tale, was probably the ringleader, the pimp who had mistaken Catherine for one of his harem.

He reached again towards her wrist, but this time his fingers sought the cloth bindings. "Let us try to make you more comfortable."

She wasn't sure what game he was playing, untying her as if she were not his prisoner after all, but she certainly wasn't going to give him any satisfaction by playing along. "I can never be comfortable as long as I am here, you beast."

His fingers stilled, and it occurred to her that she could be risking her life in provoking him. But he made no comment, and soon resumed the unknotting. Then he leaned across her, so close that his golden mane brushed her chin, to work on the other hand. His voice was light as he said, "I am sorry my apparel is not more presentable. I should have liked to have been better attired for our first encounter where you were actually awake."

The bile rose in her throat. 'Our first encounter...' _Our first sexual encounter? So he is planning on raping me right here and now. The untying must be part of his fantasy, an illusion that I am a willing participant._ '…Where you were actually awake.' _So he has already raped me while I was unconscious? Of all the sick, sadistic, twisted…_ She recognized that in her current situation, there was not much she could do to stop him. But she was not going to let him maintain the delusion that this was consensual. As she felt the binding fall away, she gritted out, "It doesn't matter how presentably you dress – you are still a monster."

She could see that her words had hit home. His shoulders sagged, his head dropped forward, hair obscuring his face, and one hand went down on the side of the bed to brace himself. His momentary distraction was all the opening she needed. She reached over her head with both hands, grabbed the heavy brass candlestick that stood on the shelf just above the headboard, and swung it at his skull with all her might. It connected with a thud against his right temple. He let out an animal roar and threw up his hands in defense, but was unable to stop her second blow from hitting the same spot. His body fell across hers and was still. She was frozen for a moment, scarcely able to believe her sudden victory, but the adrenaline soon propelled her into action. Who knew how long he would be out – she needed to be far away before he awakened.

She slid her legs out from under him and bolted from the bed, still clutching the candlestick. At the entrance of the chamber she found a long tunnel stretching in both directions. She had no idea which way led out of the dungeon, but there was no time for indecision. She picked a direction and took off running, pulling the bandages from her head as she went. She had been moving for a few minutes, long enough to wonder how huge this labyrinth was and how far she still was from safety, when she nearly ran headlong into a short balding man.

"Whoa there! Where in the world are you going?"

With a primal scream, she swung the candlestick at him, but he danced backwards. Over and over she lashed out, but her blows never connected and he refused to yield the path. And then a pair of burly black arms wrapped her in a bear hug from behind, pinning her arms to her sides. Catherine screamed furiously, throwing herself backwards in an attempt to head-butt her captor, but it was no use – the man was solid. A low voice beside her ear said, "Easy there, lady. Ain't no cause for all this commotion."

The bald man darted forward and pulled the candlestick from her grasp. "Boy, am I glad to see you, Winslow."

"Any time, Pascal. This is Vincent's guest?"

"Yes, I saw her yesterday when I stopped by. He had to tie her to the bed. I don't know how she got herself loose."

"She's screaming like a banshee. Did he pick her up from an asylum or something?"

"Heh, seems like it, don't it? Hey Winslow, check it out – there's blood on the candlestick."

"You don't think…"

"We need to get her back to Vincent's chamber."

Catherine found herself being half-marched, half-carried back in the direction she had come from. As they entered the chamber, she saw the lion-man – Vincent, they had called him – standing in the middle of the room, swaying slightly, bracing himself on the footboard of the bed. A thin stream of blood ran down the side of his face.

"Get her onto the bed," Pascal directed, "I'll tie her down again."

As the two men wrestled her down, Catherine's terror and despair mounted higher than she had ever thought possible. She had blown her one chance of escape; it was too much to hope that they would be careless enough to allow her a second. She twisted and lunged and thrashed, but the black man's bulk pinned her to the bed as the bald man pulled one arm over her head. And then the whole nightmarish tableau froze at Vincent's roar of "Stop!"

In the sudden stillness following his command, Vincent continued quietly, "Can't you see that she is traumatized? I feel her terror striking at her like a snake. Tying her down will only exacerbate that. If she is to calm down, she must feel that she has some control."

"So you want us to just let her run wild through the tunnels whacking people with candlesticks?" asked Pascal incredulously.

"I agree that would be less than ideal," Vincent responded dryly. "However, this chamber only has one exit. I am sure that between the two of you, you can manage to keep the situation contained."

Winslow and Pascal nodded at each other, then in unison released their captive and moved to block the chamber entrance. Catherine sprang off the bed into the furthest corner of the chamber, grabbing a metal bowl from a shelf and holding it in front of her like a shield.

There was a moment of silence following this reshuffling, and then an older man with a cane shouldered his way into the chamber. "What is all this ruckus? You are frightening the children and – Vincent, you are hurt!"

"It's nothing, Father. You can fuss over it all you want later, but we have a more pressing issue."

"The girl did this to you? I warned you that it was a bad idea bringing her here."

"Can we please discuss this at another time, Father?" Vincent took a couple steps toward Catherine, which caused her to suck in her breath sharply and wave the bowl threateningly. But he was only stepping around the footboard to sink heavily down onto the bed. He addressed her in a low calm tone. "We seem to have gotten off on the wrong foot. But you have nothing to fear from us."

"I am not Carol!" She had meant it to come out sounding assertive and defiant, but her voice was thin and high-pitched even to her own ears.

Vincent blinked in apparent surprise. _Hah, he had no idea of the mistake he had made!_ But his next words confused her. "Who is Carol?"

"Carol? You know, the woman your goons mixed me up with? The prostitute that you thought was about to escape your stable and turn state's evidence on you? Well, that's not me! My name is Catherine; I'm a corporate attorney. I know nothing about your business; I know nothing about prostitution at all." She winced, knowing she had left herself wide open to a barb on that last statement; she braced herself to hear a mocking "You'll soon learn." The reactions she got instead were unexpected. The two men guarding the door looked at each other uneasily. The older man's jaw fell open and he whispered, "Good heavens!" Vincent bowed his head for a long minute. Catherine looked from one to the other uncertainly, feeling like she was missing something very important.

At last Vincent looked up at her, but before he could speak, inspiration had struck her. "Listen, my father is Charles Chandler. He's very wealthy. I would be much more valuable to you as a hostage for ransom than as a sex slave. If you call him…"

"Miss Chandler," Vincent interrupted firmly, "We are not who you think we are. We are not the men who attacked you."

"Of course not," she laughed a bit hysterically, "You are just your average run-of-the-mill psycho who enjoys sex with unconscious women."

She expected the response to this to be sneering acknowledgement, or perhaps anger, but again the lion-man surprised her. He stared blankly for a minute, then said in a tone of slightly offended confusion, "Beg your pardon?"

"Back when you were hovering over me in the bed, you said it would be our first encounter with me awake. So how many encounters were there where I wasn't awake?"

His eyes widened in horror and he was speechless for a long time before he could finally manage, "Miss Chandler, please believe me! I was using 'encounter' in the sense of 'meeting'. I was not referring to…well, in the words of Hamlet, to 'country matters.' No one here would violate you in any way."

"You had me tied to the bed!"

"You were delirious with fever. You were flailing and thrashing about so violently that we feared you would do yourself greater injury. We restrained you for your own safety, as gently as we could. I can understand what you must have thought when you awoke. I regret that I had not untied the bindings before then. But I was called away on an emergency, and, well, you regained consciousness sooner than we had expected given your condition. You will recall that I did loose you as soon as I returned." He paused for a minute to let that sink in, then continued gently, "Let me explain how you came to be here. I was walking through Central Park two nights ago when I saw you being thrown from a van. When I reached you, I could see that you were gravely injured. I brought you to my father, a doctor, for treatment. We have no connection to your attackers, no knowledge even of who they are."

"You lie!" She pointed her finger in accusation. "If you were just an innocent bystander, a good Samaritan, then why didn't you bring me to a hospital instead of this dungeon? And why are you hiding behind a mask?"

She thought she heard a snort of laughter from the doorway, but when she swung her head around, both guards had schooled their features. Vincent hung his head and said quietly, "There is but one answer to your two questions: I wear no mask. What you see is who I am. For that reason, I feared for my safety if I were to carry you into a hospital. But I feared for your safety if I were to leave you outside the doors. So instead I brought you to a place where you could receive the needed treatment with minimal risk to either of us. You are not in a dungeon; you are in our home."

Catherine had nothing to say in response. She was still trying to process his words - _I wear no mask_ - when he continued, so softly that she could barely hear him, "I am afraid that it did not occur to me that, having been unconscious when your captors discarded you, you would naturally assume that you were still in their hands when you awoke." He looked up, and his eyes held hers. "For that, I am more sorry than I could ever say."

Afterwards, Catherine would never be able to explain why his words affected her or how she knew she could believe them. She only knew that at that moment, the hard knot of terror inside her began to unravel. The adrenaline that had kept her on her feet began to ebb away, leaving her weak-kneed, and she put one hand against the wall to steady herself as relief and release of tension caused tears to fill her eyes and close her throat. "And you will let me leave? You won't keep me here?"

Vincent started to his feet at her tears. "Of course not! We will guide you to the surface as soon as you wish. Although I would urge you to stay and rest for another day or two at least. I think when you have calmed a bit, you will realize that your body needs more time to recuperate from your terrible ordeal."

"Where am I?" she whispered thickly, and Vincent moved slowly towards her, hands spread in a gesture of peace.

"You are in a network of tunnels beneath New York City. Those who, for various reasons, have found it necessary to leave their lives Above have formed a home here, a community founded on ideals of sharing and mutual support. It is a place of refuge and safety."

"But you will let me leave?" she asked again, nearly pleading.

"Certainly. You are free to leave here at any time. You are not our prisoner, you are our guest."

Her wounded face crumpled as the tears began to spill from her eyes. "I thought you were… I thought I was…" she sobbed incoherently.

"Hush, I know, I am sorry." Vincent had reached her now, and as she swayed dizzily, he put his hand out to brace her arm, afraid she would collapse. He was mildly surprised when she fell against him, clutching fistfuls of his shirt and burying her face in his chest as sobs wracked her body. He was still woozy from his head wound, and her sudden weight unbalanced him. He fell against the wall and then allowed himself to slide down into a seated position. Catherine slid with him, ending up half in his lap with her face still hidden in his shirt. He wrapped his arms around her and stroked her hair gently, murmuring soothingly. And there they stayed for a long time, until all her tears had drained away.

When at last she had quieted, he lifted her in his arms. Winslow and Pascal had slipped away at some point, but Father still stood watching the tableau, and tapped his finger to his temple and then pointed it at Vincent in reminder of his untreated head wound. Vincent nodded as he laid Catherine gently in the bed. "Rest now. You are safe here. I will return soon to check on you."

"You are leaving?" A note of fear crept back into her voice.

"I am just going to wash up. I will not be long," he reassured her.

But in point of fact it was about 30 minutes before he returned, freshly washed and clothed and sporting a couple of butterfly bandages on his temple. He was surprised to see her still wide awake as he sat down at her bedside. "I thought you would be asleep by now. You must be exhausted."

She looked small and frightened, her hands holding the covers near her chin. "I can't sleep. Every time I close my eyes, I see them…" Her breath caught and she shuddered.

He felt his heart clench in compassion, and without thinking he covered her hand with his own as he breathed, "Oh Catherine!" He immediately regretted the action. True, she had clung to him earlier, but that was when he had been the only harbor available in her emotional storm. Now that she had collected herself, his touch, his nearness, would no doubt be repugnant to her. All this passed through his mind in an instant, but before he could pull his hand away, she surprised him by turning her own over and wrapping her fingers tightly around his.

"You called me Catherine." She gave him a tremulous smile that he nearly missed because he was staring in fascination at their joined hands. "Earlier it was Miss Chandler."

"I'm sorry, I – "

"No, I'm glad. I mean, once a relationship is at the point where you've bonked someone over the head with a candlestick, formality just seems silly." She gave a nervous laugh, then continued soberly, "I am very sorry about the candlestick thing, by the way."

"All is forgotten," he assured her.

"But that's not all I'm sorry about," she rushed on. "Even before that, I had called you some awful names, and – "

"You don't need to apologize," he cut in. The words, the look in her eyes as she had said them, still stung, and he did not want to dredge the memory up again. "I have seen my reflection. I know what I am. Speaking the truth requires no apology."

He tried to pull his hand away, but she held tighter. She gazed at him for a long moment in silence, then spoke softly, "If you took my words for a judgment on your appearance, and accepted them, then you do not know what you are. I was not at all referring to what you are on the outside, but to what I thought you were on the inside."

"A sadistic trafficker in enslaved women."

"Exactly. My words were directed to the man I mistook you for. But you - you have treated me with nothing but compassion and kindness; you acted with dignity and restraint, even under attacks both verbal and physical. There is nothing inhuman about you."

For a long moment the air seemed to crackle between them, and then by unspoken consent they both looked away, dropped their hands back to their sides. Vincent cleared his throat and said, "You should try to rest now."

"Yes. Maybe now that you are here, I can. But what am I keeping you from? What would you be doing now if you didn't have a candlestick-waving madwoman occupying your quarters?"

He smiled at her self-deprecation. "At this time of evening, I suppose I would generally be reading."

"Would you read to me, then? Your voice is so soothing; maybe it will help me to sleep."

He sat back in his chair, studied the pile of books on the table next to him, selected one, and began, "It was the best of times, it was the worst of times..."

Her voice already blurred with drowsiness, Catherine murmured, "Mmm. Sounds like my day today."

The stitches crisscrossing her face bore stark witness to why she would consider this the worst of times. But it was the fact that she also thought it the best of times that brought the smile to Vincent's voice as he continued, "It was the age of wisdom, it was…"


End file.
